


The Shrine

by EmmyJay



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Also eggs, Angst, Angst and Humor, F/M, Humor, Memorials, People mourn in mysterious ways ok, Underpants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 22:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: In the wake of the final battle, an impromptu memorial pops up in Skyhold.  Some might call it disrespectful; others would laugh, and tack up another pair of underpants.





	The Shrine

**Author's Note:**

> Quick backstory: I used to live in Cardiff, and down at the Bay there was (is?) a shrine to the character Ianto Jones from the TV series Torchwood.
> 
> I recently learned that Ianto's actor, Gareth David-Lloyd, also voices Solas. And things just sortof snowballed from there.

It was Lavellan herself who started it: returning to Skyhold after the final battle, haggard and worn, stumbling into the familiar rotunda only to remember too late that its usual occupant was no longer there.

A horrible, empty ache had filled her then, the truth she had ignored finally settling: Solas was gone. He wasn't coming back, to the Inquisition or to her. The fact that he lived was not even a comfort; if anything it was salt in the wound, knowing he was out there, alive, but forever lost to her.

Standing there, she had taken in the brilliant frescoes surrounding her: her actions, her story, painted carefully (lovingly) by his hand.  When her eyes landed on the final one, she realized it was still incomplete.  It depicted what would have been a dragon, or perhaps a wolf (was that its leg or its jaw?) bent before a sword thrust out of the ground.  The end of her tale, never to be finished.

For a time she merely stood, staring; then, she had taken a pile of books from his table, and placed them reverently at its feet, before turning and fleeing the room.

\---

As is typical of such things, no one was certain who made the next contribution. But mere days later, a candle sat beside the books, its flame already burned out by the time anyone noticed it.

It was not long before an influx of tributes began piling haphazardly against the rotunda wall: more candles, books taken from the library, flowers plucked from the garden, notes containing hastily-scribbled words of comfort. When the mass on the floor began actively hindering any movement through the room, people began posting their mementos on the walls themselves (though thankfully there seemed an unspoken rule against defacing the actual paintings).

As with the candle, no one was certain who tacked up the first pair of undergarments (though most agreed it was probably Sera).

After that, the usual tributes were joined by the more ridiculous. Further pairs of undergarments joined the first, growing increasingly large and frilly with each addition. A dozen eggs were left arranged atop the pile of books, each with a severely frowning face drawn on. Someone left several cups of tea; someone else decided later to put flowers in them.

There were some who frowned on this display, condemning it as "disrespectful" to everyone who had been lost since the sky first cracked open.

Even so, none of them dared disturb it.

 

\---

It was nearly a week before Lavellan could bear to enter the rotunda again. But when she did, she stopped abruptly in the doorway, gaze immediately caught by the pile of books, candles, flowers, and heartfelt words surrounding that final, unfinished fresco—all of it inter-spaced with crude doodles on scraps of paper, a parade of glowering eggs, and multiple pairs of ridiculously lace-covered undergarments.

The Inquisitor stood frozen, taking in the sight.

And then she laughed: the first time she had done so aloud since that day, when the man she loved had vanished without a goodbye. She laughed until her legs couldn't support her, and she sunk to the floor in the doorway, hands clapped over her mouth, completely overcome with the peals, while her companions nearby paused to smile at the sound.

\---

The shrine was not long-lasting after that: the flowers withered, the tea soured, the eggs rotted, and the denizens of Skyhold quietly reclaimed their underthings. Piece by piece it all was dismantled, until all that remained were an amassed pile of books no one felt like returning to their rightful places. Or perhaps this was their rightful place, now: waiting for someone who would never return, same as the unfinished painting in front of which they sat.  Same as the Inquisitor, who still smiled at the memory whenever she walked through the rotunda, dragging her fingers through the gathering dust on the table.

"Hurts like gnawing hunger: for him, for those like him, the ones who were lost. Laughter changes the hurt. It doesn't go away, but it makes the memories sweet again.  It makes it so you can remember without breaking."

Varric placed a signed copy of 'Hard In Hightown' alongside a fresh cup of tea on top of the pile ("for when you get back" scrawled across the cover), and patted Cole fondly on the back.


End file.
